By: Ann Brown
I have issues with Giada. You know, Food Network Giada, the one whose recipes star her cleavage? The cooking show with the soft core porn lighting? The one where you can almost hear the bwamchickabombom soundtrack as she sinks her enormous teeth into the eight million calorie deep fried treat that she is surely going to spit out (perhaps into her cleavage) as soon as the camera pans away from her.
My issues with her, however, do not stem from my knowing for certain (because I really, really think so) that she cuts out the necklines of her shirts. I mean, where the hell does she shop? No, my issue is that the barre has now been raised to the point where every meal is supposed to be delicious. And we believe that shit, we believe that we are deserving of a stellar dinner. And our kids believe it, too. And then we complain that our kids are picky and we are short order cooks for them.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not an “eat to live” person. Food is always on the top, say, three, things on my mind. I like to say that I sleep like a baby; that is, I wake up every two hours and cry until I get something to eat. So, no, it’s not that I don’t enjoy good food; it’s that we’ve bought into the image, once again, we’ve upped the ante. And a once perfectly acceptable dinner of dry-to-petrified chicken, nuked broccoli and leftover salad (with the dressing on it) is no longer perfectly acceptable.
Yes, I know that Giada is not to blame. I am the one – not Giada- who asked my young children, “do you want pasta with basil pesto, sun dried tomato pesto or with alfredo sauce” as if giving them noodles with a jar of ragu was tantamount to serving pasta with my own warm urine on it. I’m the one who bought into the food lifestyle. Of course, Giada is not to blame.
Because it’s really that insufferably serene Barefoot Contessa that makes the rest of us feel like losers.
Still,I do not have the Contessa in my cross-hairs despite her extremely aggravating penchant for having it all- including a husband who is gone during the week, who leaves her blissfully alone with her six-burner Viking stove and her gay friends, a husband who comes home each Friday night only to be dispatched to bumble about the grocery store (and, btw, what kind of simpleton is sent to the market for a lemon and comes home with a grapefruit? I think gentle Jeffrey has wrapped his Beemer around a few too many telephone poles rushing home to the perfect baked chicken) or hanging at home bumbling about the kitchen, stealing tastes of a meal reminiscent of that weekend in Paris they shared (you know, the weekend she sent him to the patisserie for an eclair and he came back with a Pygmy goat? Oh, dear, simple, stinking rich, adorable Jeffrey).
No, I have no issues with La Contessa. At least she keeps her shirts buttoned all the way to the top.